


Such Selfish Prayers

by Meduseld



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DCU, Green Lantern - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trainwrecks the both of them, Trust Issues, secrets and lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meduseld/pseuds/Meduseld
Summary: Oliver gets an unexpected visit from the past. For once it's almost pleasant.
Relationships: Hal Jordan/Oliver Queen
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15





	Such Selfish Prayers

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure I quit Arrow about halfway through season 3, but this is set roughly at the end of Arrow season 1 because that is the Oliver I had in mind. That means that [Yon González](https://www.facebook.com/yongonzalezworldfan/photos/a.187831598433416/365768627306378/?type=1&theater) plays Hal in this fic because [why not](https://sryongl.tumblr.com/post/613265310585323520/blancasuarezstyle-yon-gonz%C3%A1lez-madmenmagazine). [For V, who needed the pick me up]

The bass beat vibrates in Oliver’s teeth even as he walks away from the main dance floor of the club. 

Part of him is beginning to hate it, not because of the ever-present vomit, lost underwear and drunken problems that any night club sees.

But because everyone seems so happy, so content, bathed in the flashing lights. The world is one big party and he’s not invited. 

He knew what he was giving up, the bridges he was burning to devote himself to this quest, this redemption. 

It’s just hard to have it staring him in the face all the time. 

That’s pointedly not the reason he doesn’t head down to join Diggle and Felicity and the fight against the latest roadblock in their mission, or missions, really, by now. 

Instead, he heads upstairs to the office he sort of shares with Tommy. He really _does_ have work to do. Verdant doesn’t run itself, after all. 

No matter how much he may want it to.

The fact that Tommy is currently at a family dinner he couldn’t weasel his way out of has nothing to do with it, either. 

He’s so focused on convincing himself that these things are true that he almost misses the fact that someone is waiting for him in the gloom of what passes for their office. 

Oliver catches on quickly, though. Mostly because a heavy body launches itself at his, right as the lights go on. 

In his defense, whoever it is, is someone clearly trained and not going for blood. 

It’s weird and somehow exhilarating to grapple with someone who knows what they’re doing, no offense to Diggle. 

They can fight the same dirty way Oliver likes. 

He hasn’t had this since Slade, the ache still there. It spurs him on.

Until finally his ankle gets hooked and Oliver finds himself pressed to a wall, someone as handsome as he’s familiar grinning in his face. 

“Jordan?” he says, forgetting to growl. They’d done something like this before, the crush of bodies, usually just as clothed and cramped, in bar restrooms and truck stops and in the shade of the choppers provided by Waller for whatever suicide mission she sent them on. 

“In the flesh” says someone who definitely looks, sounds and smiles like him. It’s one hell of a smile.

If he’s a fake, some surgically altered spy or particle accelerator created mutant, he’s a very, very good copy. 

“What are you doing here?” Oliver says, managing the snarl this time, almost completely fighting off his body’s urge to go slack, to let Jordan have him. 

He can’t remember the last time somebody touched him with any motive but to hurt. 

Even his hands are loose around Jordan’s clothing, his neck wanting to arch into the cool press of whatever ring Jordan’s wearing. 

“I thought that would be obvious” Jordan says, flexing the thigh he’d gotten wedged between Oliver’s legs. 

“Why are you in the city” Oliver grinds out, trying not to rock on the solid muscle. 

Jordan smells the way he always does, jet fuel and leather, eyes sparkling with the usual pilot related insanity. 

It wouldn’t take much for them to be kissing. He hadn’t realized his lips could ache with it. 

Jordan had been a good kisser, he remembered that much. 

“Had leave, didn’t feel like hitting the West Coast and avoiding my family. You’ve been on the news all over the East Coast— he paused to lick his lips, flickering out just enough to brush Oliver’s and grinning wickedly when he arched forward before he realized what he was doing— And, well. They don’t call the rest of it flyover country for nothing” Jordan purred, ducking his face into Oliver’s neck and chuckling when he pulled away with a glare. 

He hoped it was a glare. He’d be pissed if it was a pout. 

Jordan must mean he’s been in the news as Oliver Queen. He hopes so. He’s definitely smart enough to peg him as The Hood. He’s just also the kind of man who wouldn’t care enough to do it.

“Leave? You’re still with _Waller_?” he spat, hating how breathy he sounded, how his fists around Jordan’s elbows were just holding instead of pulling away. He should. He would.

Eventually.

“Aw, baby. I haven’t worked for the Wicked Witch of the West or my Uncle Sam in a long time” he said with such a braying laugh that Oliver had to bite at his lips. 

It was mostly biting, anyway. 

And he definitely didn’t moan when Jordan’s tongue snaked along his lips before pulling away. 

Even if he needed the intel more than more kisses.

“No Ollie. The ones I work with, these days...they make Waller look like a fourth grade mean girl” and it’s enough for a little bit of blood to rush back up to remind Oliver that Jordan might be here to kill him. For a variety of reasons. 

It doesn’t piss him off the way it should. 

They had fought together and fucked together and never at any point actually trusted each other. 

He didn’t even know if Jordan was a first name or a last name. Or if he even _had_ a family. 

This wasn’t different. And Oliver wanted to be touched. He would deal with the consequences later. 

Because apparently, under all the tattoos and scar tissue, the dumbass frat boy he’d been hadn’t died after all. He wonders if that’s sad or not. 

Jordan’s just watching him, the tiny line of tension in his shoulders only noticeable if you had the experience Oliver did, in the field and with him. 

“It’s a yes or no question” Jordan says, not quite stepping back. Just angling enough that he could get away quickly if it went sour. 

Somehow that tips him the rest of the way over the edge. 

Oliver reaches for Jordan’s closest hand and settles it firmly between his legs, where he’s already diamond hard. 

It’s the right choice, because Jordan starts moving his fingers immediately, the solid flat of his strong hand, and the unforgiving edges of the ring, making Oliver a little cross-eyed. 

He hums happily, and some part of Oliver registers he’s not exactly being a reciprocal partner, fists still loosely clenched on Jordan’s leather jacket, watching him through hooded eyes. 

Jordan doesn’t seem to mind, moving his teeth and tongue over Oliver’s neck in time with the pulsing of his hand. 

Some perverse part of Oliver hopes he leaves a mark, a badge he can gloat over, prove he still has this. Besides, the look on everyone’s face would be priceless. 

Then Jordan’s hand makes its way _inside_ his pants and he doesn’t think much of anything at all other than hot, hard, _yes_. Jordan smirks against his neck, happier than he ever was, before, at being in charge. 

Maybe they’ve both changed. Or maybe it isn’t really him after all. 

He’s too focused on the calloused fingers teasing the places where he’s throbbing and blood hot to care all that much. 

It wouldn’t be the first time someone he was sleeping with tried killing him, and in the middle of the act too. 

Instead of that, Jordan rumbles happily and sinks gracefully to his knees. 

That, that casual, unstudied elegance was what he most remembered about Jordan. And how annoyingly handsome he still is, hair perfect even in the middle of combat. 

It draws his eyes, as Jordan undoes his pants, his warm breath an agonizing tease, but he doesn’t get much beyond reaching out for it before getting both his wrists slammed into the wall behind him, the ring digging into his wrist like a warning. 

Jordan’s eyes are wide and dark and pointed and Oliver knits his fingers together at the back of his own head without having to be asked. 

Jordan’s never done that before, and Oliver can think about a thousand, mostly horrific, reasons why he would now. 

Only about six are related to this possibly being about killing him, which are good odds as far as he’s concerned. 

Especially after Jordan nuzzles his cock in apology, which is almost sweet until it turns into the best kind of torture, pressure everywhere but not enough, the soaked warmth of his mouth far away even when the tip of his tongue traces nonsense patterns all over the most sensitive part of him. 

There’s a low level vibration there, Jordan’s probably laughing, that’s burrowing under his skin. 

He chances a look down and gets the breath punched out of him. 

His cock, so red hot and full it looks like it doesn’t even belong to him, draped along Jordan’s grinning face, dark eyes blown and gleaming. 

Their gazes lock and Jordan shifts minutely, the feeling zinging through Oliver’s entire body and presses a butterfly light peck to the sensitive spot Jordan teased out, almost right at the root. 

“Please” Oliver begs, feeling something jar loose in his chest when he does.

“Please” he almost sobs and it’s a release in and of itself. 

And then it gets better: Jordan’s lips close around the tip. His tongue dips into the weeping slit, and Oliver’s eyes roll into the back of his head. 

His body takes over the driver’s seat, hips starting to thrust, until Jordan presses them back, vulnerable and bare, into the rough brick of the wall. 

The unyielding cold of the mortar, scraping him as his hips trying to fight their way forward, just makes the counterpoint of Jordan’s hot, soaked mouth, dancing along what feels like Oliver’s entire body, enough to make his mouth drop open. 

The stupid, animal sounds pouring out just get worse as Jordan takes him deeper and deeper, impossibly good and taut and _alive_. 

He can vaguely hear the click of the metal button on his jeans, or maybe it’s from that heavy ring, scraping the ground as Jordan’s hand must move into his own pants to take care of himself in time. 

The flat of his tongue drives Oliver into the hard roof of his mouth, the pain just this side of pleasure, when they both hear the footsteps, coming their way and fast. 

He can feel more than see Jordan’s grin, whimpering at the way he bears down. 

It’s stupid, it’s dirty, it’s almost cruel, and he wants it just as much. 

It’s Diggle’s voice, low and assuring, speaking to someone, almost certainly Felicity, even if Oliver can’t really make out the words over the roar in his ears. 

He spreads his legs a little further and tips his head back, feeling Jordan move over him like a consuming fire, left hand wrapped around his shaft as his lips and teeth move down the length. 

It’s one hell of a view, the mental image as stimulating as fingers raking his chest the way he likes. 

The door opens and shuts almost as quickly, just enough to see a blurry idea of their shocked faces through his slit eyelids. 

Jordan nips at his hips with a laugh, the cold air shocking tease on every sensitive place he made wet with his tongue. 

Before Oliver can groan, Jordan swallows him down, the heat of his throat almost unbearable, making him arch against the brick and scrape himself up, brain going haywire with the stimulus. 

He can feel Jordan’s grin, and he can’t decide if it’s laughing at him. 

The idea makes him feel somehow, impossibly, harder, throbbing against the vertiginous everything inside of Jordan’s mouth. 

It’s that, and the tiniest touch of Jordan’s teeth at the base of his cock that has him coming, helpless, moaning like he’s hurt. 

Oliver feels boneless, vulnerable, collapsed against the brick. He’s never made an easier target. 

Jordan doesn’t take the chance. 

He rises to his feet as graceful as ever, looking mussed in the way a model would rather than the mess Oliver feels like. 

Jordan lopes easily to the trashcan and spits, all of it, neatly inside. 

His pants are already closed, even if Oliver can see the wet spot left on the floor. It needed a mopping, anyway. 

He idly wonders at what point Jordan came, how out of it he really was, if he wasn’t supposed to notice. 

Oliver knows he should get up, tuck himself away, square back into position. 

The wall is hardly ideal for post coital bliss and Jordan is far away in more ways than one, already zipping up his leather jacket. But it’s been a long time since he felt this relaxed.

“Hey” he says, surprised at how shaky he sounds. 

Jordan glances up, lock of dark brown hair falling into his eyes, perfect Crayola brown and completely unreadable. 

“Give me your number” Oliver says, sounding like the frat boy that died in him years ago. 

Jordan laughs, fond, pushing his hair back with the hand with the gleaming ring. “No dice, man. But I’ll be around. For a bit, anyway” he says with a big wink. 

“Alright” Oliver says and is surprised to find he means it, didn’t want the responsibility of a call after all. 

Jordan nods, smiling, like maybe he knew that. Still, it’s just one of a thousand or so very good reasons not to leave Oliver a way to find him. Easily, anyway.

He pauses in the doorway for a moment, devastatingly handsome to say “catch you on the flip side”. 

Then he’s gone. And everything is still, impossibly, alright.

He enjoyed himself, he was selfish for under an hour, and the world didn’t end.

Oliver rolls his shoulders back, enjoying the lack of tension. 

Whatever questions Felicity will have, or whatever judgements may come from John, he can handle. 

For the first time since this all started, Oliver feels like he’s back. 

With a smile, he hits the lights and gets ready for what comes next. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hal’s acting weird because he’s applying the best way to get over someone (Sinestro and their divorce) is under someone else. For varying values of under. And I realized this is kind of a remix of a scene from _[Half As Much As You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20887406)_ because apparently this is what I like for them. The title is of course from _[Bedroom Hymns](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A-vrYeVGGZ0)_ by Florence + The Machine because. That’s what it’s about.


End file.
